


Sandalwood

by ShadowHeart



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy I
Genre: F/F, F/M, Porn, Sorry Not Sorry, something plottish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:50:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowHeart/pseuds/ShadowHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Warriors of Light deal with the aftermath of their earliest victories and brace themselves for the journey ahead. M/F, F/F, some bureaucracy. Very light domination/submission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sandalwood

**Author's Note:**

> There is a LOT of FF porn. There is very little FFI porn. I aim to help fix that.

_Sandalwood_

 

 

 

_It had been an impossibly long day._

 

The young man shifted uneasily, painfully aware that the smallest movement on his part showered the marble floor and red carpet beneath him with uncountable specks of moss, mold, bone fragments, and the various unmentionables that still clung to his sweeping vermilion red cloak. He clasped his hat tightly in his left hand, while his right hand held out a golden crystal about the size of a ripe apple for inspection. _These damnable crystals!_

 

The King was still droning on. The red mage hadn’t really bothered listening, knowing perfectly well that while the monk likely had more pressing concerns on his mind, and the warrior probably didn’t even understand the proceedings, that the white mage would be perfectly able to fill him in later. Something about the prophecy – like somehow the four of them didn’t already know about it. The residents of Corneria had hardly been able to talk about anything else.

 

Well. Almost anything. Eyes shielded by unruly stark-white hair, he snuck a glance over at the princess they’d rescued. Sarah. She, too, appeared tired beyond belief, face smudged with grime and ash, seafoam green hair tangled and filthy, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. There was a red mark on her neck where a necklace had been torn away, taking a small amount of skin with it, and her white silk gown was likely irreparably stained.

 

“The bridge, Father,” she interrupted at long last, lips barely moving.

 

Yes. The bridge would be built, and in the meantime the heroes – the Warriors of Light! – would of course rest up, and eat and drink at their leisure and enjoy the beautiful surroundings of the prosperous kingdom, to which they had restored the oldest princess, the lady Sarah, daughter of the King, himself, who—

 

_Oh for the love of every frostbitten prophet who ever lived, just let us go!_

The princess chuckled, and only then did the red mage realize that he’d spoken out loud. The white mage, on the other hand, looked utterly horrified, while the King simply sat stunned but finally silent.

 

“W-with all due respect, sire,” the other magician began, “we’re—”

 

“Exhausted,” the red mage cut in. “And we have wounds to attend to, and frankly no more patience for standing on ceremony, and there’s a fair amount of spirits that must be imbibed in order for me, at least, to forget a few of the more particularly nasty horrors in that shrine.” The smell of the ghouls hung heavy around him still, and Fighter, though silent, was still clutching her numbed arm as though afraid it would fall off. Black Belt leaned heavily on her good shoulder in order to keep his bad foot off the floor. His head listed forward and his eyes were glazed. No, Black Belt was most certainly not listening.

 

“You may go,” the princess said softly, before her father could respond. “We’ll see to the bridge.”

 

As the Warriors of Light left the throne room, crystals tucked safely out of sight, one of the servants – probably a lady-in-waiting, the red mage noted distractedly, judging by the long dress and decidedly _frilly_ demeanor. In any case, whoever-it-was pressed a small piece of parchment into his hand and giggled, then ran off without further explanation. Vapid idiot passing some ridiculous love note, no doubt.

 

The mage clenched his fist around the message and continued onward without so much as an aside glance. The white mage could take a chance to heal all of them at the inn, where there would be a warm meal and a few beds besides. He jammed his hat onto his head a bit more roughly than necessary. Fighter already talked in her sleep. Perhaps the encounter with so many undead ( _so many_ ) would make her start screaming.

 

White Mage stopped him with a light touch to the shoulder. “I should get an Ether here,” she said. “To make sure I can get everyone sorted before bed.” He nodded, and the other three Warriors of Light disappeared into the shop.

 

He sank onto the ground outside the door and finally glanced at the message. It was short, at least.

 

_Request an audience with you after sundown. Approach from the east. Come alone. Urgent._

He was still staring at the beautifully-formed letters when the rest of his team trooped back outside.

 

“What is it?” Fighter asked, craning her neck a little toward the note.

 

The red mage stood up and shoved the scrap deep into a pocket of his cloak. “I’ve been summoned,” he said shortly. “I’ll meet the three of you later on.”

 

* * *

 

It had been a simple matter to post himself just inside the forest on the east side of the castle, waiting for full dark. He hadn’t expected the same lady-in-waiting to fetch him just as the last rays of light faded from the horizon, nor to be escorted through what appeared to be some sort of servants’ entrance, followed by a twisting series of tunnels hidden by a tapestry of some king (doubtless a nearly-forgotten ancestor of the current chatty monarch) and his retinue hunting an embroidered fox.

 

He was eventually deposited in a small room lit dimly by several silver candlesticks. Their flickering light gave the room a pleasantly organic quality, with the warm glow warming the silken green drapes, the deep green carpeting –

 

The forest green canopy over the bed.

 

“I’m glad you came.” The voice was soft, nearly musical, and of course he knew who had spoken before turning around.

 

“Princess.” He turned, removed his hat again and bowed over one outstretched leg, only the faintest of tremors in his hand betraying his near panic. _In her room! No chaperone!_ In some kingdoms, that in itself would warrant execution. Of course, the Warriors of Light would shortly be leaving Corneria, but _still_. . . .

 

“You’re safe,” the princess said. “ _My_ servants” (the faintest of emphases on “my”) “are loyal.”

 

The mage nodded and straightened, cap in his hands. His eyes remained fixed to the floor.

 

“You’re the leader of the Warriors of Light, yes?”

 

Leader? Until a mere week ago, he hadn’t even been entirely on board with being much of a warrior of _anything_. Of course, then he’d found the crystal – or it found him – and then the white mage, who’d already found the warrior girl and the monk, found _him_ , and suddenly everyone was expecting him to know what to do and where to go and how to fight ghouls, and—

 

“They’re terrifying, aren’t they?” The princess still spoke quietly, but matter-of-factly. “He had them touch me whenever I tried to escape. I don’t know how he did it, but they listened to him. It feels like—”

 

“Like your heart’s frozen over,” the mage finished, swallowing heavily. Both hands were shaking now. Sleep. He just needed to sleep. Defeating Garland had been easy enough, but getting back out? Fighting their way out of that damned shrine, with the undead closing in on them, and the princess scarcely able to stand up on her own, much less defend herself—

 

The white mage had luckily prepared Dia, but even then it nearly wasn’t enough.

 

Her white hands took his wrists, their grip surprisingly firm. “Easy,” she said. “We’ve…a custom here in Corneria, for heroes. Indulge me?”

 

He nodded, still staring at the floor. Her feet – clad in pale green slippers – stepped closer to him, and he was suddenly almost painfully aware that she smelled strongly of something, some sort of perfume. Sandalwood.

 

A light, cool pressure on his forehead as she leaned upwards to kiss him. He finally looked up as she pulled away.

 

“You called an audience,” he said heavily, “just for a kiss?”

 

She shook her head, a smile slowly emerging. He met her eyes then, and later, much later he would remember them, and be unable to remember if it was their color (deep, almost searingly bright blue) or their impossible clarity ( _I know you_ , they seemed to say, and it wasn’t possible, of course, but there you had it) that made his breath catch in that instant. And it didn’t matter.

 

“Follow me,” she said, crossing the room and disappearing behind a printed silk screen. It was the sort of voice that, while not demanding anything and certainly not barking out orders, nevertheless expected to be obeyed. He did, and discovered that the screen hid a small, tiled alcove, where a steaming bath lay set into the floor. The smell of sandalwood was even stronger here. He paused.

 

Princess Sarah moved back closer to him (and he realized now, that what he’d first taken to be yet another simple white silk dress was actually just a robe, and that he could clearly see the small swell of her breasts underneath the light fabric, nipples puckering the front of it slightly). Her hands unfastened the clasp of his cloak, then slithered beneath it onto his shoulders, letting the cloth fall to the floor.

 

“Your boots, sir,” she said. “If you would bathe.” She gestured toward a small wicker stool sitting against the wall, and he sat. He began leaning forward to unlace his boots, which were still caked with mud and dust, but she was already on her knees before him, white fingers loosening the knots.

“You shouldn’t—” he began.

 

“Let me decide what I shouldn’t do,” she said, deftly removing the first boot and moving to the second. “Take off your shirt.”

 

His linen shirt, and shortly thereafter, his leggings were discarded in an unceremonious pile next to his hat and sword. The princess laid a hand on his hip, eyes carefully focused on his face. Her fingers lightly traced the thin line of a scar along his back. He felt the lightest of pressures on his back, pushing him toward the scented water, and he stepped carefully forward, and lowered himself into the tub.

 

“Is it too hot?” she asked.

 

It nearly was – definitely was too hot along the fresh wounds on his shoulders and chest, but he shook his head and sank beneath the steaming water, blissfully feeling the heat and the oils she (or, perhaps, that vapid servant girl) had added to it dissolve the dried blood and muck that had clung to him since they’d left the shrine. The crypt.

 

When he surfaced, the first thing he saw was the white robe the princess had been wearing hanging on a hook on the far wall. The next was the curve of the princess’s almost equally white neck rising from the water beside him. She straightened a little, bringing the level of water nearly even with her chest. Their combined movements had jarred the water, and it slid over her breasts, alternately exposing and hiding her pale pink nipples.

 

“Do you mind?” she asked. He shook his head, and she inched closer, rising to her knees on the underwater ledge supporting them, tilting her head so her lips brushed his neck and traced a slightly clumsy line upward to his cheek. But it was he, the white-haired youth, who cupped back of her head in his hands and brought his lips to meet hers, one arm falling to the small of her back.

 

The kisses began soft, sweet, almost innocent, but within a few moments she had pressed herself against him, legs straddling his lap and soft breasts pressed into his chest as her lips parted and her tongue slipped out, caressing his own. The water was hot, nearly burning around them, and her body felt almost cool in comparison, though he could feel her heart fluttering wildly as though it lay against his own skin rather than within hers. And exhaustion or no, another part of him had awakened and stood stiffly beneath the water. His thoughts flickered briefly to that simple but ever-so-useful white spell the white mage had taught him shortly after they met, the one she used each morning and had goaded him into using habitually as well.

 

He did not quite remember lifting himself from the tub, though he remembered holding a hand out to the girl – it was easier to remember that despite all royal titles she was only a girl when her naked skin was as damp and as goose-pimpled in the open air as his own – and guiding her out of the tub. There was a single white towel thrown over the screen, which they passed briefly between them, leaving their skin mostly dry but their hair still dripping.

 

“The bed.” Her voice was still hardly above a whisper, but still ardent. “Please.”

 

He bent and lifted her easily, one arm supporting her back and the other her legs, and she nestled her head into his neck as he carried her back across the room, her mouth and tongue creating a line of heat that made the rest of his skin suddenly cold and shivery. He laid her gently on the bed, her hair spread out like a fan beneath her, several shades lighter than the bedspread.

 

“I use a spell,” the mage said quietly, a trace of warning creeping into his voice. “If you were—”

 

“Despite my parentage,” Sarah interrupted, “I’m no fool. I had my maids brew a certain tea an hour ago.” She gestured to a stained, empty porcelain cup on the oaken bedside table. “Continue,” she said archly. “Please.”

 

He lowered himself gently on top of her, kissing her first (as she had him) on the forehead, and moving slowly downwards, planting the soft kisses on each fluttering eyelid, flowing down her cheeks, lingering for some time at the hungry mouth, tongues pressing urgently together, before moving on. His tongue made its lazy way along her neck, and he rejoiced silently to feel her shuddering beneath him, her breath catching, and she gave a tiny cry as his lips touched her earlobe, sucked, and she again made an eager sound when his teeth grazed her skin there ever so gently.

 

He gasped himself to feel a warm, firm hand grip his erect cock and slowly begin pumping. He rocked his hips into the motion of her hand, letting her palm glide down his entire length before moving back up, and he pulled away then, out of her reach, and resumed kissing – starting by planting a small circle around her right breast, placing his hand over the left one and squeezing gently, feeling her nipple press into his palm as his own hardness had been until moments before pressing into her own skin. His mouth closed softly over the other nipple, and he toyed with it with his tongue, flicking it over her soft flesh. The princess moaned, eyes fluttering closed and hands falling unprotesting to her sides.

 

Her breath, which had already hitched several times, became to come faster as his kisses moved further down her body, over her ribs, lingering over a pink cut on the soft part of her stomach, his fingers digging into the curve of her hips. He moved his hands down, onto her thighs, and carefully pressed against them, parting her legs. She leaned upwards slightly, propping herself on her pillows, and her eyes again met his as his lips found the join between her leg and her crotch. Slowly, never taking his eyes off hers, his mouth moved inwards, finally settling on the tiny hard nubbin of flesh above her pinkest parts. She smelled and tasted mostly of the sandalwood, but beneath that smell there was another – darker, more feminine – and as his tongue teased at the top of her sex, his fingers quested for it. A single finger slid inside her easily, natural wetness and warmth closing around it as his tongue began making circles. She tightened around him, and he increased the speed of his tongue and was rewarded with another moaned _please._ He slipped another finger inside her and stroked gently, curving his fingers slightly upward and pressing against the top of her, speeding up again as her breath hitched and more moans escaped her lips. Her legs closed around his shoulders and her hips thrust forward into his face, begging for more. He gave it to her, tongue eagerly licking and fluttering over her, fingers still thrusting, preparing her for the greater thickness yet to come.

 

Her first orgasm, though quiet, spasmed steadily against his fingers, closing and opening slightly against them as she gasped for breath. He pulled away as she began to settle, and began moving to again lay atop her, his hardness pressing against her. He had just pulled his hips back to guide himself into her when a light seemed to go on behind her eyes, and she grinned, then suddenly shoved against his chest.

 

She wasn’t strong, but the movement caught him so by surprise that he tumbled sideways onto his back, and before he could recover she was sitting astride him, his now almost achingly-hard manhood standing tall. He was blissfully aware of her beautiful wetness sitting at the base of him, could feel a thin trickle of it over his bollocks. She ground against him for a moment, then pulled away as _he_ had and stuck out her pink tongue, tracing it lightly over his shaft, up and down and up again, before lowering her mouth over the head of it.

 

He felt certain that he would explode there and then for some moments, as her tongue flickered in circles around his cock and her mouth pressed over him from all sides, hot and wet and _tight_ , but he held it back (though he could not do as much for the groans that escaped his own mouth, still smeared with the evidence of the last kisses he had given _her_ ) until she took mercy on him, pulled her mouth away, and leaned forward, rising to her knees.

 

She stared him directly in the eyes as her hand guided him inside her. They remained motionless for a few moments, relishing the sensation of being fully together, before she lowered herself – slowly, slowly – onto him, his cock disappearing inch by inch inside her. He raised his arms, to touch her neck, her white shoulders, to cup those perfect breasts which bounced so near his face, but in a flash she had caught both of his wrists and pinned his arms behind his head, anchoring herself there as she thrust her hips forward and back down, again and again, sliding almost to the edge of his cock each time before fully embracing it again, tightening around him, then loosening slightly to rise up and begin again.

 

She leaned into him, relaxing her hold on his arms, and again her mouth worked against his neck, and her breasts pressed hard against him, and still her hips worked, shuddering up and over him in perfect rhythm. He worked his arm down, sliding a hand between them near where they joined, and his finger found again the spot outside her sex, and she came again quickly, this time crying his name in sudden ecstasy, the inner folds of her body quivering against his hardness, and it was while she was still thus that he took advantage, turning her onto her back again.

 

This time she allowed him to remain on top of her, and he thrust into her, carefully at first, then more deeply as she brought her hips up eagerly, trying to take in more of him. He plunged inside her, feeling her close around his cock, then withdrew almost completely, holding her down when she tried to lift her hips up into him again, holding her until she fairly whimpered to have him inside her again, another ragged, whispered _please_ , _please, lover_.

 

He thrust steadily into her, lowering himself so he could shower her chest and neck with kisses, so their mouths could meet, and it was while their lips were touching that he finally came, thrusting as deeply as he could, his seed spilling hot and thick inside her, her legs closed around his hips – their tongues intertwined.

 

They lay curled together long into the night (she quickly assuring him that her servant could guide him, in the morning, safely back to the inn with no chance of discovery), her body fitted into his, his face buried in her hair which still smelled faintly of sandalwood.

_Meanwhile, back at the inn…_

 

The white mage carefully combed out the tangled strands of the warrior’s reddish-blonde hair. “Strawberry blonde,” her own mother might have called it, and certainly that softer description suited the warrior better in the mage’s mind, the warrior who the monk had apparently not realized was female for a full three days, but who White Mage had found, on that same day, sitting alone in a clearing that had been the site of their first really bloody battle together. The young woman had been sobbing, full-on blubbering over the deformed body of one of the monstrous horses they’d killed. At first, White Mage had tried to explain this, that the creatures were twisted and demented by dark forces, but the warrior had, not very coherently, simply sputtered out a few lines of verse. The mage recognized them, dimly remembered them from a storybook her nurse had read to her, about a white mare who falls in love with a…what was it called?...it didn’t matter, but it was a magnificent horse with but one horn, like and nothing like the beast that lay dead before them (and the white mage had seen beasts like this impale grown men on those terrible single horns, had healed those awful gaping wounds more times than she cared to remember, since those images came back more clearly than those foggy memories of books filled with paintings of flowers and childish poetry).

 

But this was a wound she couldn’t close, couldn’t even reach, and instead she held the fighter in her arms until the tears dried up, and later helped the other woman gather flowers to place around and over the killing wound on the beast’s neck (it was a sword slash, which meant that the blow had been dealt by either the red mage or the warrior, and having seen the red mage’s graceful but weak parries alongside the warrior’s powerful strokes, White Mage was pretty certain who had sliced the monster’s throat open).

 

And now that same warrior who had wept for a monster sat obediently still on the floor next to White Mage’s bed, having her hair braided.

 

“You really should have done this before,” White Mage scolded. “These knots are awful.”

 

“I forget,” the other woman replied as the mage patted the last strands of hair into place. “Where’d you send the monk off to?”

 

“He said he needed to meditate, and I asked him to pick up some more potions on his way back. He’ll be gone a little while.”

 

“Oh. Good.”

 

Before the mage could question this response, the fighter had stood up and, in one fluid motion, wheeled around, placed her hands squarely against the smaller woman’s shoulders, and pinned her to the mattress with a kiss.  
  
The mage was not entirely surprised by the kiss (and _that_ in itself should almost have thrown her), nor by the feel of the swordwoman’s strong, callused hands fussing at the clasp of her white cloak, nearly breaking it in eagerness. Those hands _did_ rip her soft cotton trousers, some minutes later, but that was easily forgiven, considering what followed (and oh, how soft those lips were, in contrast to the roughness of the fighter’s hands).

 

It was just as well that the two women were fully occupied for that significant stretch of time (the fighter burying her face and tongue as deeply into the mage’s crotch as she could, the mage lying back with her eyes closed, all thought – for once – completely obliterated). They believed themselves uninterrupted, but the mage had neglected to mention that the monk had taken the key to their room with him, and in the moment likely forgotten that fact altogether.

 

So it was this that led to the red mage and the monk meeting outside their rented room the next morning, the monk sleeping against the hurriedly re-locked door, sitting guard, and the mage slowly walking in, white hair perfectly in order underneath his red hat, solemnly picking the strings of a lute that smelled, against all likelihood, of sandalwood.


End file.
